


Even as I wander, I’m keeping you in sight

by mycanonnevercame



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, But I’m sick of messing with it so here you go, Canon-Typical Violence, Don’t judge my shitty attempt at transcripts okay I didn’t try that hard, F/M, Fix-It, Is this fic a hot mess?, Maybe - Freeform, Murder, Sharing a Bed, The Liebermans Ship It, voice memos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycanonnevercame/pseuds/mycanonnevercame
Summary: Karen Page runs, and when she’s on her own with no one to talk to, she opens her voice memo app and talks to Frank.Frank hears about the massacre and immediately returns to New York to look for Karen.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 199
Kudos: 240





	1. What I started fighting for

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Can’t Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon.
> 
> How many times am I going to rewrite DDS3?  
> *Will Turner voice* At least once more, Miss Swan.

_Hey, uh—_

[Pause.]

[Rustling in the background.]

[Softly] _this is stupid._

[A sigh gusts over the recording.]

_I’m just— I need to talk to someone. But there’s no one, so... I guess you’re the person I think of when I think about sharing my—_

[Another pause.]

_Anyway. I made it out of the city. I don’t really know where I’m going, but... I really messed up this time, Frank._

He makes it back to the city in thirteen hours, pushing the old van to its limits. It’s a good thing he takes proper care of it. He has the radio turned up, trying to catch any updates on the situation in Hell’s Kitchen. The news is maddeningly sparse. Supposedly Daredevil massacred a bunch of people at the Bulletin, including a witness, but Frank’s not buying it — if there’s one thing Red would never do, it’s kill people.

That was three days ago.

Frank hasn’t exactly been keeping up with events in New York since he left. He only found out because the TV over his head in that diner in Bumfuck, Illinois, was blaring so loud he couldn’t ignore it, and the news anchors gave a brief update on the victim count. One of the reporters who’d been in critical condition died. He’d dropped too much money on the table and been in his van without conscious thought.

He’d paused only long enough to pull up the news story on his phone to check the list of casualties and find out when it happened. Karen’s name wasn’t among the dead. The news was already over two days old when he heard it.

When the city rises up around him, skyscrapers blocking the late afternoon sun, he finds a parking spot and stops to consider his next move. So far, the plan has been:

1\. Get back to the city.

2\. Find Karen.

3\. Get her out.

Okay, so he’s keeping it simple.

He goes to Karen’s apartment first. Climbs the fire escape and uses his knife to slide the lock on her window open. It’s cold inside, and it smells like fresh cigarette smoke, a full ashtray on the coffee table among the beer cans littered across it, and he immediately goes on red alert. Karen doesn’t smoke.

The toilet flushes from behind the closed bathroom door, and Frank tries to reign in his rage. He can’t kill this guy, whoever he is, not at first. He needs information. He slides silently into position next to the door, presses his back against the wall and waits. The sink turns on, then off. Slight rustling, a towel being used. The door jiggles a little before it opens. In one smooth move, Frank reaches out and grabs the guy by the back of the neck, yanking his head downward at the same time he brings his knee up to slam into the guy’s face.

It’s that easy — the guy grunts and goes limp, and Frank lowers him to the floor as quietly as possible, in case there’s anyone else in the apartment.

There isn’t. He clears the place quickly, but it seems there was just the one man. They must have known Karen wouldn’t come back here and only left the one lookout as a precaution. He hauls the thug into a chair and ties him to it. Searches his pockets: phone, lighter, loose change, wallet. The wallet has some cash in it, no ID, no plastic, and a single business card. The back is blank, and the front has a phone number on it in black block print. Huh.

He slaps the guy awake. It takes a couple tries, but he comes to eventually, mumbling groggily.

“Hey,” Frank says. “Hey. Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in this apartment?”

The grogginess is quickly replaced with contempt. “I’m Johnny the Thumb, and you’re gonna regret this,” he says. His voice is higher than Frank expected, and irritatingly nasal. Fucking mobsters and their dumbass nicknames.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Frank says, and Johnny rolls his eyes.

“Everyone’s got delusions of grandeur these days,” he mutters. “Of course I don’t recognize you, jackass. And before you get in too deep, let me tell you that Mr. Fisk does not appreciate when people encroach on his territory, so back off before you get yourself dead.”

Fisk. He knew it. “Let me tell you something,” Frank says, keeping his voice low and even, gaze steady on Johnny’s bloodshot eyes. “I do not give a fuck who you are. I have killed men with less reason than finding them camped out in my friend’s apartment. If you ask me, I’d be doing the world a favor, making it so one less piece of shit is out on the streets. So you tell me what I want to know, or I ventilate your head with my ka-bar. You got that?”

The Thumb seems to finally be taking Frank seriously. “Who are you?” He asks, trying to hide the tremble in his voice, and failing.

“My name is Frank Castle,” Frank says. “And Ms. Page is a very good friend of mine, so get talking.”

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Johnny’s eyes are round as saucers now that he knows Frank’s name.

“I look dead to you?”

“I don’t know much!”

Frank pulls his knife out of its sheath in the top of his boot.

“Wait. _Wait!_ I’ll tell you what I do know, just don’t hurt me, please.”

Frank waits a moment. Gestures impatiently with the knife when the asshole doesn’t immediately start talking.

“Okay, okay, all I know is that Mr. Fisk wants the reporter alive,” he says, practically falling over himself to get it all out before Frank loses patience. “She— I dunno what she did, but the boss is pissed. I was just supposed to hang around here and see if she came back, and if she did I was supposed to detain her until Mr. Fisk could have her brought in.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Only since yesterday, and she hasn’t been back. I swear, please don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Frank says, getting up and wandering around the apartment. He’s only been here the one time, but it’s seared in his memory.

Karen has always been there when he needed her. Always. And where was he when she needed him? The middle of fucking nowhere, like the useless goddamn asshole he is.

“The business card in your wallet,” he says, and the thug flinches. “Whose phone number is that?”

“I don’t know, I was just supposed to call it if she showed up. I swear, the boss’s attorney gave it to me, told me where to go and what to do, and that’s all I know. You gotta believe me!”

Frank nods. “I believe you,” he says, stepping around to stand behind the chair. Johnny gives a big sigh of relief — right before Frank snaps his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only gets *more* murdery from here, folks. You’ve been warned.
> 
> Also my grasp of the DDS3 timeline is... hazy at best. Please forgive any inconsistencies.


	2. Wish I had the strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapter lengths are all over the place... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_I’m on my third town in as many days. Went to Chicago first but, uh..._

[Throat clears.]

_I guess it was just too much like New York. Too many people, too many security cameras, buildings hemming you in on all sides... it makes me feel paranoid, worrying about stuff like that, but you know what they say about paranoia._

[Laughter, a little bitter.]

_All these midwestern towns look the same. I’m avoiding anyplace too small, they’re too likely to notice a strange face, but they still kinda feel like home, in a way. It takes me back, but... not in a good way._

He disposes of the body after night falls, and takes a few minutes to clean up the place. He’s going to make sure Karen has a life to come back to, so he doesn’t want there to be any evidence of what happened here.

Not that he’s gonna lie about it, but that doesn’t mean he has to leave the dirty ashtray and beer cans for her to find, either.

He takes a nap on her couch, and sometime after two a.m. he calls the number on the card using the dead guy’s phone.

“Update?” A voice says on the other end, slightly groggy, but businesslike. Not Fisk. The lawyer, then.

“I’ve got the reporter,” Frank says, keeping his voice low and leaning into his latent New York accent a bit so it’ll be harder to distinguish that he’s not the right guy, although he doubts the man he killed was memorable enough for it to be a problem.

“We’ll come pick her up—“ the lawyer starts, but Frank cuts him off.

“I want to bring her to the boss myself,” he snaps. “I’m not letting you get all the credit, I’m gonna make a name for myself off of this.”

There’s a pause while the lawyer thinks this over. “Alright, bring her to us.” He gives an address near the docks. “You have one hour, don’t be late.”

An hour. Perfect — that gives him enough time to scope the place out a bit before he heads in. He takes one last lap of Karen’s apartment, checking that he hasn’t left anything for her to find later. It feels intrusive, being here without her. Even more so than the five minutes he spent here when he gave her the roses, when he felt like an asshole for even speaking to her again after she’d told him he was dead to her. And then she’d hugged him and it felt like absolution and coming home and taking a breath for the first time in years, all at once.

He locks up as best he can without a key, locking the window and heading out through the front door because at least he can turn the lock in the doorknob even if he can’t turn the deadbolts. He makes a mental note to put better locks on Karen’s windows when this is all over.

The address from the lawyer is an old warehouse, the kind that has missing windows and stained walls and hasn’t been used for anything remotely resembling legal activity for decades. In other words, the type of warehouse Frank thinks of as a hunting ground. He breaks into the building across the street and goes up a couple floors so he can see into the warehouse with his rifle scope.

The windows are too filthy to see through, but there are enough broken panes for him to get a decent idea of the situation within. Fisk is already inside, sitting on an old folding chair as though it’s a throne. He looks outwardly calm, but there’s a smug snarl on his face, and his hands are in white-knuckled fists on his knees.

Frank sits back on his heels for a moment, completely nonplussed. It cannot possibly be this simple — can it?

He preps his sniper rifle, hands steadily going through the familiar motions. He always thought that when he and Fisk finally got a second chance at each other, it would be face to face and bloody.

Well, he got the second part right, at least. Fisk will end tonight, and it will be bloody.

He lines up the shot. Breathes in. Breathes out. Pulls the trigger. Watches Fisk’s head explode. It’s all a bit anticlimactic, honestly, but Frank is nothing if not practical, and he’ll take the easy win any day. Besides, he has not missed the man’s egomaniacal monologuing. Chaos reigns inside the warehouse. He takes out several other members of Fisk’s entourage, including one he’s pretty sure is the lawyer he spoke to earlier. A deranged-looking blonde man and a few others make it out of the warehouse and around the corner before he can end them. Frank books it out to his van so he can tail them to wherever they’re planning on holing up.

He follows them to a swanky hotel. He remembers hearing something about it on the radio on his way back to the city — Fisk cut some deal with the FBI that got him out of prison and into protective custody in a hotel penthouse instead. Sounded like a load of horseshit to Frank, but then his idea of justice is wildly different than most people’s.

The psycho blonde gets out of the vehicle Frank tailed here and storms into the hotel. He’s going to be a problem.

Frank drives around the block until he finds a pay phone, pulls a ball cap on to hide his face, the hood of his sweatshirt up over that. He’s let his beard grow in, and his hair is getting on the shaggy side, but he’s not taking any chances of being recognized. He kind of likes the anonymity of being Pete Castiglione, even if all he’s done with it is diner-hop his way across the country, and he’s going to hang on to it if he can.

He calls the non-emergency police number and asks for DetectiveMahoney, hoping the guy is as much of a workaholic as Karen and will be awake at this hour.

“This is Mahoney.” The voice on the other end of the line is tired, but alert.

“Fisk is dead, you’ll find him in a warehouse by the docks,” Frank says, rattling off the street address.

“What— who is this?” The detective demands.

“Just a concerned citizen,” Frank says, and hangs up. He gets back in the van and heads back towards Karen’s apartment, for lack of anywhere better to go. He almost drives off the road when some shitty heavy metal starts blaring from his pocket.

He forgot he still had the dead thug’s phone. He pulls into the first parking spot he sees and looks at the screen. Unlisted. He hits the little green phone button, but doesn’t speak.

Silence, on the other end. Then—

“You killed my fiancé.” A woman’s voice, filled with tightly-controlled rage.

“Did the world a favor,” Frank says. “Who’re you?”

“Vanessa Marianna,” she snaps. “You should remember my name, because when I find you, it’ll be the last thing you ever hear.”

“You don’t want to come after me,” Frank says, rubbing his forehead. Of fucking course it can’t be over just because Fisk is dead, his luck was never that good. “Coming after me would be a very unhealthy decision to make. Besides, you’ll never find me. You have nothing to go on. I’m a ghost.” Literally and figuratively.

“I don’t need to find you,” she snarls. “I just need to find that reporter you’re protecting. I think I’ll start with her friends, first. Kill them all, one by one. By the time I find her she’ll have no one left but you, and I’ll make sure she knows why they died.”

Frank’s hand tightens on the phone. “Like I said, that would be bad for your health.” He hangs up before he loses his temper.

Shit. He doesn’t know how many friends Karen has, but he’s willing to bet Nelson is still at the top of the list. He glances at the clock — just shy of four in the morning. He has time for another nap before he can reasonably expect Nelson to be awake. He briefly considers going up on a rooftop and shouting Red’s name until he shows up, but dismisses it just as quickly — as much as he hates to be idle when there’s a mission to accomplish, he needs the sleep more than he needs to butt heads with Matt Murdock right now.

He breaks back into Karen’s apartment. It’s undisturbed since he left, and after a brief check to clear the place, just in case, he throws the deadbolts and locks the windows and settles onto her couch. His more practical side says he should sleep in the bed, he’d be more comfortable, but every atom in his body resists the presumption.

He only sleeps for a few hours, waking up to the dim light of an overcast dawn in the city. Clouds moved in overnight, and everything is chill and grey.

He calls Nelson, who is luckily not the type to screen all his phone calls.

“Franklin Nelson.”

“Counselor. Sorry to bother you this early, but there are a few things we need to discuss,” Frank says. There’s a brief pause.

“Who is this?” Nelson’s voice is wary.

“I’d rather not say over the phone,” Frank says, mostly to be obnoxious. Red doesn’t have the monopoly on dramatics, after all. “Let’s just say I’m one of your more... _notorious_ former clients,” the sharp intake of breath tells him he’s been identified, “and that I wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t extremely important.”

“How did you get this number?” Nelson half-yelps.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Frank says, exasperated. “You’re in danger, and you need the information I have. And I want to talk about Karen.”

“Oh, no no no,” Nelson says. “You leave her out of this.”

“If it were up to me, believe me, I would.”

Another pause. “Shit. Okay, where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a diner on 44th and 9th. Meet me there in twenty. And I don’t think I need to tell you how bad it would be if the police got involved in this?”

Nelson sighs. “Right. I’ll be there.”

Frank hangs up and spends a few minutes digging through Karen’s junk drawer looking for her spare keys. If he’s going to be using her apartment as home base, he’d really like to be able to lock up properly when he’s not there. He finds what he’s looking for and locks up behind him, feeling simultaneously a little bit worse and a little bit better about using Karen’s apartment. He still feels like an intruder, but at least he’s keeping it safe for her.

Despite the delay, he still beats Nelson to the diner. He’d given the short timeframe specifically to keep the lawyer from involving the cops. It didn’t give him any guarantees, but he was reasonably certain that even someone as eloquent in the courtroom as Nelson was couldn’t convince the cops to set up a sting on a dead man with only twenty minutes lead time.

He gets a table in the back and sits against the wall. It gives him a good view of the door and of the street outside the window, and he’s right by the kitchen so he can slip out the back door if he has to. The contingency plan is second nature — he doesn’t really think he’ll need it, not with Nelson. He dropped Karen’s name deliberately during that conversation, fairly confident that Nelson’s curiosity and protectiveness of his friend will bring him here without an ulterior motive.

The lawyer walks in a few minutes later, looking harried. He’s better dressed than the last time Frank saw him, and his hair is shorter. He looks around the diner, eyes passing over Frank without pausing. Frank snorts to himself. Guess his disguise is better than he realized if even Nelson doesn’t recognize him on sight. The second time Nelson’s eyes pass over him, Frank raises a hand to get his attention and watches as the other man’s eyes go wide. He visibly steels himself before heading over to Frank’s table and taking the other side of the booth.

“This better be good,” Nelson mutters. Frank shakes his head.

“It’s bad,” he corrects. “Trust me, I wouldn’t come to you unless it was important.” Nelson nods slowly. The waitress comes by, and he orders a coffee, to which he adds a truly horrifying amount of cream and sugar. Frank tries to keep the judgment off his face, but luckily Nelson is too busy stirring the sludge in his mug to notice.

“So what’s going on? I thought you were dead.”

“Legally, I am,” Frank says. “I’ve been out of the city for the last few months. Came back yesterday when I heard about the massacre.”

Nelson doesn’t say anything, but his concern is evident.

“Do you know where Karen is?” Frank asks, because the question has been clawing at his throat for half an hour now.

“I don’t,” Nelson says, shaking his head. “She skipped town two days ago, but I don’t know where she went. We figured it was safer for her if she didn’t tell anyone, even me.”

Frank nods, disappointed but not surprised. Karen is too smart to do a half-assed attempt at running. At least she’s out of the city.

“She... she went to Fisk,” Nelson goes on. “She told him... well, it’s not mine to tell, but she told him something, trying to manipulate him into breaking the terms of his house arrest, and Fisk almost— well. I stopped it in time.”

Frank grits his teeth. Nelson is couching it in ambiguous terms, but Frank knows Karen well enough to read between the lines — she almost got herself killed.

“Fisk is dead,” he says, watching Nelson’s eyes go wide again. “Since last night. The problem is now his fiancée. She doesn’t know who I am, but she realized I was protecting Karen, so now she’s coming after her, and since she can’t find me or Karen, she’s going after all her friends.”

That comes across loud and clear. “Jesus,” Nelson says faintly.

“Listen, I’m gonna take care of it. I just wanted to give you the heads up to be ready and look out for yourself. Warn any of Karen’s other friends if you can.” Nelson is nodding and looks a bit ill. “And if you have a way to get in touch with her... tell her not to come back to the city. Not yet.” Frank is pretty sure she won’t come back even if she sees the news that Fisk is dead. She’ll know it’s not over yet. Hell, he’ll be lucky if she comes back at all.

“Have you seen Matt?” Nelson says abruptly, and Frank knows what he’s really asking: _have you seen Daredevil?_

“Nope,” Frank says. “I heard he was dead.”

“Just a liar,” Nelson shakes his head bitterly. “And a thief and a hypocrite.”

“Thief is new, but I already knew the other stuff. Looks like you had to find out the hard way. Is he... around?”

“As far as I can tell, yeah. He’s going to be pissed when he finds out about Fisk.”

Frank shrugs carelessly. He gives zero fucks about Red’s delicate sensibilities. “What’s all this bullshit about him killing those reporters?”

“It was an impostor,” Nelson says. “I don’t know how, but he got a Daredevil suit somewhere. A good one, it looks just like Matt’s. We think he’s working for Fisk. Or, he _was_...”

Right, no one’s working for Fisk now, thanks to Frank.

“I didn’t think it was him. You know anything about a psychotic-looking blonde on Fisk’s payroll?”

Nelson blinks at the apparent non sequitur. Frowns thoughtfully. “There’s a blonde guy in his FBI detachment...” he says. “Benjamin Poindexter. I wouldn’t go so far as to say the guy is psychotic, and I don’t know if he’s dirty... but he’s where I’d start.” Frank nods, and Nelson hurries to cover his bases. “Don’t kill the guy just because I gave you his name.”

“Relax, counselor. I only kill people who need it.”

“That’s what worries me,” Nelson mutters, glancing at his watch. “I have to get going. Thanks for the warning.”

Frank nods and slides a napkin across the table with his phone number scribbled on it. His actual phone number, not Johnny the Thumb’s.

“If you need anything, give me a call,” he says. “And if you hear from Karen... tell her, uh. Tell her I want her to have an after, too. She’ll understand,” he adds at Nelson’s questioning look, drops some cash on the table to cover their coffees and the tip, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a little nervous about this because I’ve taken it in a pretty unexpected direction I think... be gentle with me dear readers, even more murder is still yet to come!


	3. Come crashing through

_I’ve never missed Fagan Corners. That’s uh, that’s where I’m from. Fagan Corners, Vermont. The middle of fucking nowhere._

[A scoff.]

_It’s one of those towns that has a diner and a bar and pretty much nothing else. Everyone knows everyone else and all your mistakes are with you forever because no one will ever let you forget them._

[Pause.]

_Not that I could ever forget. I live with what I did every day._

He goes to meet Turk that night. The gunrunner about pisses himself when Frank shows up.

“Aw, come on, I don’t need this shit,” he says, and Frank chuckles.

“Relax, I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“You _are_ trouble.” Turk looks both ways down the alley they’re standing in. “Man, I cannot be seen talking to you, Fisk’s organization is all riled up and the last thing I need is to be seen with the Punisher.”

“Just give me what I want, I’ll pay you and be on my way. You’re the one dragging this out.” Frank rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s a fucking drama queen these days. Besides, Fisk is dead.” Turk grumbles to himself, but opens his trunk. True to his word, Frank gets what he needs, pays the man, and leaves, a heavy black duffle slung over his shoulder.

It takes him well over a week to dismantle Fisk’s — Marianna’s — organization, or at least enough of it to make the city safe for Karen again. He doesn’t bother with the low-level crooks, instead heading straight for middle management, and he’s careful to vary his MO a bit. The last thing he needs is for the cops to be on the lookout for the Punisher again.

He only runs into Murdock once, on a rooftop near Frank’s latest target. They rehash a couple old arguments, but neither of them really has their heart in it. Red seems confused, disoriented, like the landscape of his world has been irrevocably altered and he’s not sure how to navigate it now. Even his condemnation of Frank’s methods doesn’t have its usual weight, and when Frank tells him to stay out of his way, Red doesn’t argue. The whole exchange is unsettling.

By the time he corners Poindexter and Marianna in the safe house they bolted to after he made the hotel an unsecured location, Frank is running on fumes. Six months of peace and he almost forgot the toll this kind of work can take, not just on the body, but on the mind. He’s exhausted. He’s not sure how many men he’s killed this week (he lost count somewhere in the fifties, and that was a couple days ago), and they all definitely needed to go, but fuck, he thinks he’s actually ready to retire for good after this.

It’s a sobering thought.

“One thing at a time, Castle,” he mutters to himself. He’s in full gear, a balaclava covering his face, Kevlar strapped to his chest — plain black, he never added the skull this time around. He only brought a couple of pistols with silencers and his ka-bar with him. Marianna only has a handful of men here, patrolling around the small house or taking a break to listen to the game on the radio in the detached garage while they smoke. The house is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods. It’s a stupid place for them to run to — it’ll take days for anyone to find what’s left of this place once he’s through here, and there’s no one close enough to hear them scream.

He takes the guards out, one by one. Quietly, so no alarm is raised. When the last one is dead, he sneaks up to the house. He can hear voices inside, snatches of an argument.

“—supposed to _kill_ him—“

“—he’s like a cockroach—“

“No more excuses! Take care of it—“

He eases the back door open, just a crack, to get a look at the layout inside, figure out where Poindexter and Marianna are.

He’s had a couple run-ins with Poindexter by now, always dressed in that false Daredevil suit, enough to know that, even unarmed, the dirty FBI agent has lethal aim — pens, knives, rocks, anything in reach is a potentially deadly projectile, and Frank is nursing the stab wounds to prove it.

So of course Frank finds him and Marianna in the kitchen, surrounded by pointy, throwable items. Marianna sees him first and shoves Poindexter in front of her like a shield, hastily grabbing for the nearest weapon — an enormous chef’s knife, which she brandishes, nearly stabbing her associate in the ass. Frank would laugh if he had the time.

Poindexter, meanwhile, has already started throwing things, the fucker. He grabs the knife block and throws knife after knife Frank’s way. Frank dodges the first two and stumbles back out the door, yanking it shut on his way through. It shudders as three more knives thunk into it.

He baits Poindexter into chasing him across the yard and into the garage. It doesn’t take much — the guy’s crazier than a bag of cats, and Frank uses it to his advantage, taunting him into making a wrong move, getting him to come in close where Frank has the advantage because even Red, with all his fancy footwork and training, couldn’t consistently get the best of Frank in a hand to hand fight. Poindexter may have the right set of little boy’s pajamas, but he’s not Matt Murdock.

At the end of it, Frank is still standing and Poindexter is choking on his own blood.

He leaves him there, bleeding out from multiple stab wounds to his carotid, and heads back into the house. Marianna is still in the kitchen, which surprises him — he’d thought she was smarter than that, too smart to stick around and wait for her fate to catch up to her. But maybe she’s never really experienced violence, only played at it from behind the protective bubble of Fisk’s influence. Doesn’t know how to push past it, never learned how to survive.

“I’d rather not kill you,” Frank says, holding his hands out, empty. He sheathed his knife before he came in. Maybe this, at least, can end Red’s way.

“You’ve taken _everything_ from me!” She shrieks. She still has that huge carving knife in her hands, and she lunges at him now, brandishing it and screaming like a banshee. He tries to disarm her but she’s like a woman possessed, and in the end, instinct takes over — he blocks her thrusts, sees his opening, and uses her own momentum against her, twisting her arm until the knife slides between her ribs.

She blinks at him in shock, stumbling away from him, hands on the knife. He doesn’t try to stop her when she pulls it out. It tumbles from her fingers, hits the floor with a clatter, and he watches as she sticks her fingers in the blood pouring from the wound, staring at the sticky redness like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

“Wilson,” she sobs as she falls to the ground, blood spraying from her lips. “Wilson...”

He waits impassively for her to finish dying. Washes his hands in the sink, wipes as much blood off his face and clothes as he can before heading back out to the garage to make sure Poindexter is dead, too. He’s lying in a massive pool of his own blood, and Frank nods to himself, satisfied. Drags all the bodies into the garage or the house, whichever is closer, and sets fire to both.

By the time anyone notices the fire and comes to investigate, he’ll be long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow seriously what is pacing, chapter length WHOMST??
> 
> Listen, if anyone tries to argue that Frank wouldn’t kill Vanessa because she’s a *woman* I will scream...


	4. It always seems that I’m following you

_I haven’t been home in ten years. I bet it hasn’t changed at all._

[Pause, a sigh.]

_There was a time I loved my hometown. Feels like a million years ago, now. But now... even if I was welcome, I don’t think I’d fit in there. Not anymore._

[Sniffling.]

_I, uh—_

[A muffled sob.]

_I called my dad, the other day. After everything went to hell, and even my last-ditch attempt to fix things didn’t work. I called him. I guess I hoped he’d finally forgiv— that he might still lo—_

[Another sob.]

[The recording cuts off.]

He burns the Kevlar. Again. Burns pretty much everything he’s worn over the last week, throws it all in the murder van and burns that, too.

It feels like a ritual cleansing. He watches the fire destroy his past, and when it’s all gone, he feels lighter. He feels like he’s finally exorcized the Punisher. Maybe Frank Castle can finally get a chance to live now.

He buys a truck. It’s old, it’s not pretty, but it’s clean and runs fine and, most importantly, doesn’t look like a serial killer’s ride.

He shows up at the Lieberman’s house without giving them any warning, too afraid he’ll chicken out if he calls them and gives them time to think about it beforehand. Sarah answers the door.

“Pete?” She says, as if she can’t quite believe her eyes.

“Who is it, honey?” David calls from deeper inside the house.

“It’s, um,” she calls, trailing off and looking at Frank again. Turns back to call, “I think you better come here.”

David appears in the entryway, brow knit in confusion until he sees Frank. He stops in his tracks and stares. Trades a worried glance with his wife. Frank still hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t really know what he’d say, and besides, it feels like he doesn’t have the right to speak first, not after so many months of radio silence.

“What’s going on?” David asks, moving to put an arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “Is it— did we not get them all?”

“No, nothing like that,” Frank hurries to reassure them. “I’m not... I mean. I’m just here to, uh. Say hi?”

They both blink at him in surprise for a moment, and then David laughs. “Shit, man, don’t scare me like that! Come in, come in,” he says, gesturing Frank into the house.

Sarah goes to the kitchen for wine while David herds him into the living room and onto the couch. The kids must be at school, and he’s grateful. He can save that reunion, and the associated apologies, for another time.

“I was kinda starting to think we’d never see you again,” David says as Sarah returns with three glasses and a bottle of rosé.

“You’re six months late for Thanksgiving dinner,” she says lightly, handing Frank a glass of wine.

“Yeah... I’m sorry about that.” Frank frowns down into his wineglass. “I uh, I needed some time, and then the longer I was gone, it just... it seemed easier to stay away.”

“So... what changed?” David asks.

“I came back to... take care of some business,” Frank says carefully. “For a friend. I’ve been on the road the last few months, but I heard about... uh.” Shit, he doesn’t know how to do this. Talking in circles was always David’s forte, not his, but it feels wrong to just come right out and tell David — tell _Sarah_ — that he murdered upwards of sixty people over the last two weeks. He’d do it all again in a heartbeat, but that doesn’t mean he thinks it’s good.

“I told you it was him taking down Fisk’s empire,” David says to Sarah, smacking his palm down on his thigh emphatically. He raises his eyebrows at Frank. “You’ve had a busy couple weeks.”

Frank laughs, the sound surprised and too-short, but genuine. He should have known David would be onto him already. “Yeah, uh, I heard about the massacre at the paper. Came back because...” He shrugs, takes a sip of his wine. It’s good. “You know why.”

“You should have brought her with you,” David says.

“Yeah, thing is she, uh... she skipped town, two weeks ago. And I haven’t seen her since...” he trails off.

“Oh my god, you haven’t seen her since that damned hotel, have you?” David says, exasperated. “Seriously, Frank, you have got to work on your coping mechanisms.”

“Right,” Frank mutters. Why did he want to see David, again?

“Who are we talking about?” Sarah asks, obviously lost. Frank opens his mouth, not really knowing what he’s going to say, but David beats him to it.

“Karen Page,” he says smugly. “Frank’s girlfriend.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. “She’s not my girlfriend,” Frank mutters.

“Yeah, but she could be,” David counters.

“Karen Page, that badass reporter?” Sarah wants to know. Frank grunts a confirmation. “Is she who you were talking about?” He meets Sarah’s gaze and doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what she means. _Have you found something to do that for you?_

_Uh, maybe. Yeah... maybe._ He nods at her now, and she smiles.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go after her!” She says.

“I’m leaving in the morning. I just, uh. I wanted to touch base with you two, let you know I’ll be gone a couple weeks but... I’m coming back.” Sarah reaches out to touch his hand, and it’s nice. It feels good to be back here, with his friends.

David is grinning like a schoolboy. “Do you know where she is?”

“I’ve got some leads,” Frank hedges, because he really did not come here just so David would help him find Karen.

David is having none of it.

“Just let me help, buddy,” he cajoles. “It’ll be faster, and then you can both come back to the city. We’re expecting you for Sunday dinner.”

“I— okay,” he says.

David bounces out of his seat, gesturing impatiently for Frank to follow, and leads him down into the basement. It’s a far cry from their old bunker, clean and brightly lit and warm. A small office in the back corner is packed with electronics, and in minutes Frank is surrounded by the familiar sounds of David’s art.

Karen, it turns out, is really good at disappearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #theliebermansshipit


	5. I can’t fight this feeling anymore

_Do you ever feel like your entire life is just a series of massive fuckups?_

[Pause. A faint sniffle.]

_It feels like Kevin all over again._

[Pause, longer this time, broken by an audible swallowing sound.]

_I guess I never told you about Kevin. There was never really time. He was— Kevin was my brother._

[Pause.]

_I’ll tell you about him, sometime. It’s easy to forget— sometimes I think you know me better than anyone ever has, but I’ve never really told you anything, have I?_

In the end, he’s glad he let David help him, although he is never going to tell David that. Even with their combined skillsets, it takes Frank another two weeks to track Karen down.

When he pulls into town after twelve days of searching and sees the sign for the Shining Star Motel, it feels like fate. He pulls in and gets a room. He’s been carrying around an envelope with her spare keys he borrowed and a note with his fake name and real phone number, and he thinks he’s finally going to get the chance to give it to her.

He finds her that night. She’s working at a diner down the road, and she doesn’t really look at him when he walks in, busy chatting with an old man in one of the booths.

“Have a seat wherever, I’ll be right with you,” she says, waving at the nearly-empty dining room. It’s almost midnight, and this is the type of town where they roll up the roads at ten p.m. and put them away until the next morning. There’s a knot between his shoulder blades, and he slides into a booth at the back, trying to remember how to breathe normally. He watches as the old man finishes paying his bill and leaves, the diner now empty except for Frank and Karen.

She swings behind the counter, grabs the coffee pot and a menu and heads for his table. He keeps his head down, hiding beneath the brim of his hat until she sets the menu in front of him. He can feel her eyeing him, but he doesn’t look up until she flips his mug and starts pouring coffee. Her name tag says Julie.

“I’ll be right back to get your order,” she says, starting to turn away.

“Thanks, Karen,” he murmurs, and she freezes. Slowly turns back to him. He smiles at her crookedly, and she slides into the booth with him, staring like she’s just seen a ghost. “Hey,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” She demands, turning to scan the empty restaurant before turning back to him. “How did you find me?”

He doesn’t know where to start. “Lieberman,” he finally says. “He helped me track you down.”

She laughs humorlessly. Covers her mouth with one hand. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I saw the news. About the massacre.” She looks away. “Fisk is dead, Karen. Along with most of his organization.”

“Frank—“

“I figure you already know that,” he says, eyes steady on hers. “I think you already knew I did it, too.”

She sighs and drops her head into her hands. “I bet Matt had a coronary,” she mutters.

“He was less than pleased, but he stayed out of my way.”

“I just... I don’t understand why you bothered,” she says finally, looking up at him. “You’ve been gone for six months, and clearly I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, I never had any doubts about that.”

“Then why did you come back? You know I’ve never wanted you to kill for me, and clearly you don’t need me, so what is the point of all this?”

“I thought you might want your own after,” he says warily, and she flinches. “And if you’re worried about being stuck with me, you don’t need to be.”

She laughs bitterly. “So you just came back to fix my fuckup and now you’ll disappear again?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—“

“Then what are you saying?” She demands, glaring at him furiously.

“I’m saying... Staying away doesn’t—“ He swallows, he can’t look at her right now, can’t hold her gaze when he bares his soul. He’s never been that brave. He can look Death in the eye without flinching, but not Karen Page.

“I could still lose you,” he says quietly. “Staying away didn’t change that, it just made it that much more likely that I wouldn’t be there when you needed me. And I wasn’t.”

She frowns at that. “I’m not your responsibility, Frank.”

He scoffs. “ _Responsibility’s_ got nothing to do with it,” he growls, actually looking at her, leaning forward and cocking his head to get in her face. Her eyes are wide, a small crease in her brow, lips parted slightly. “You been talking to Red too much, ma’am. I don’t want to be responsible for you, not that you’d ever let me anyway. You’re not a child, or a pet, you’re a woman. A goddamn difficult one.” He shakes his head, scoffs again, softer this time, eyes skittering around the diner before landing back on Karen. “I’m saying— I’m saying I give a damn, and it’s up to you whether you’re okay with that or not, but I’m not gonna run away from it anymore. Here,” he says abruptly, handing her the envelope. “I’m at the motel down the road. Room 17. I’ll be there through the weekend.” He digs for his wallet as he stands up, suddenly needing to _move_. He can’t watch her make her decision, not without going mad, even if it looks like he’s running. He’s _not_ , but that doesn’t mean he has to wait here for her verdict.

“It’s on the house,” Karen says. She hasn’t moved, and normally he’d argue with her, but he just nods.

“Take care,” he mumbles over his shoulder as he walks away. He looks back at her once, right before he heads through the door. She’s frowning at the envelope in her hands, the lamp over the table turning her hair to gold.

He leaves before she looks up.


	6. Been running round in circles in my mind

_It’s only been two weeks and I miss the goddamn city._

[A chuckle.]

_Never thought I’d say that. New York has always been... just a place I lived, I guess. A huge, terrifying, exhilarating place. Not home, not really. I don’t have one of those._

[Long pause.]

_Kevin was my home, and I killed him. I could tell you the whole sad story. That I was a kid, that I was high, that it was an accident. It was still my fault. A series of bad decisions, and I chose wrong, every time._

The motel is nothing special, despite the name. But it’s clean and the beds are surprisingly comfortable. He paces for a while after he gets back, twitching at every little sound, every time the wind rattles the window or his neighbor flushes the toilet. Eventually he flops onto the bed nearest the door, still fully clothed, too exhausted to keep pacing even though it feels like he could crawl out of his skin with nerves.

He never thought... he hadn’t really expected Karen to be overjoyed to see him, he’s never been that naïve, but he’d expected her to at least be relieved she could go back to her old life. She doesn’t have to worry about Fisk anymore, and even if she can’t work at the Bulletin, she has to know another paper will pick her up. She’s too good at what she does to be unemployed for long.

And if she thought he wouldn’t do anything about Fisk, if she thought he wouldn’t come running the moment he found out... he scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. If there’s one thing he’s done right since his family died, it’s protecting Karen Page, even when she doesn’t want him to. Nothing could stop him from doing it. But he knows it’s his own damn fault if she didn’t think he would do it this time.

He’s woken from a restless sleep when he hears a key scrape in the lock. He’s on his feet, gun in hand, before he’s really awake. Did someone follow him here, someone he missed in his killing spree? Did he lead them straight to Karen? He has a moment to panic about whether they came for him first, to wonder if they’ve already gotten to Karen, and then he’s at the door.

He yanks it open before his intruder has a chance, and— it’s Karen. She jumps a little, takes a half-step back. Her gaze falls to the gun in his hand, and she cuts him a look.

“Sorry,” he rasps. “It’s a reflex.”

“Believe me, I get it,” she says. He stands there staring at her for a second, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, pulling the door open enough for her to slip in and standing out of her way. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder, and the knot of tension between his shoulder blades loosens just a bit at the sight. She drops it at the foot of the other bed, shoves her hands in her pockets and looks around the dark room while he pulls her key out of the door and closes it, turns the lock. He puts his gun down on the table by the door and flips on a lamp. They both flinch a little at the sudden illumination.

“Where’d you get this?” He asks, holding up the room key.

“The front desk gave it to me.” She takes a few steps toward him. “I may have given them the impression that I’m your girlfriend and told them I lost my key.”

He snorts. “Great security here.” He tosses the key to her, and she catches it easily. She nods and they lapse into silence. Fuck, but he’s glad to see her. He can’t stop staring at her.

“I’m sorry... about earlier,” she says, and he takes a couple steps closer to her. “I guess I just thought— if you could find me, someone else could, and—“

“Come on, Karen, you don’t gotta do that,” he says. She moves a little closer to him. “Not with me, don’t apologize.” Karen looks at him and he’d give _anything_ to touch her just then. He thinks she read his mind because her arms are slipping around his waist and her face is buried in his neck and he leans into her, wrapping his arms around her and sliding a hand up to cup the back of her neck. She takes a long shuddering breath and relaxes into him, and that knot between his shoulder blades loosens that much more.

“You’re safe,” he mumbles, rubbing circles into the soft skin behind her ear. “I’m so fucking glad you’re safe.” She presses herself closer in response.

“Me too,” she says softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t quite believe her. He’s too used to being bad news. She must hear it in his voice because she nods against him.

“I am,” she says firmly, arms tightening around him.

“You wanna talk?”

She pulls back a little to look at him, her blue eyes soft. “In the morning? I kind of just want to go to sleep.”

“Okay.” He nods, brushing a thumb down her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is awful in the real world right now (at least here in America) and I could leave y’all with that angsty ending on that last chapter, plus that one and this chapter are pretty short, so I’m posting two chapters today. 
> 
> Sending love, and I hope you’re all safe <3


	7. I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might

_I don’t know if you’ll ever listen to these. Probably not — I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever see you again._

[A soft sigh.]

 _I think about you a lot. Especially now. It’s so quiet out here, outside of the city. I don’t mean there’s no noise, not exactly. There’s just... a lot of room to think. It’s fresh. A clean start, or what I imagine that would feel like if everything about me out here wasn’t a lie._

[Pause.]

_It feels like a lie, and that makes me think of things that feel true, and—_

[Laughter.]

_Fuck, I’m such a sap. ‘All heart’, Jesus. But yeah... you always felt true to me. You were always protecting me, but it was never because you didn’t think I could handle myself. And that’s... rare, for me. Even Foggy had to learn that I’m not some delicate angel._

[Scoffs.]

_At least he learned. Matt still hasn’t._

[Pause.]

_I bet you know Matt is Daredevil, don’t you? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who didn’t see it. And by the time he told me, it was too late._

[Longer pause.]

_I guess it’s too late for a lot of things, now, but... Doesn’t stop me thinking about..._

[Unintelligible.]

[The recording ends.]

[But...]

[It almost sounds like she says _you_ at the end of the sentence.]

They take it slow the next morning. Frank wakes at the crack of dawn out of habit, feeling surprisingly well rested considering he was up half the night. He considers trying to go back to sleep for a minute but ultimately decides it’ll be a lost cause.

Karen is still asleep, eyelashes shining in the morning light like twin golden crescents against her cheeks. There’s an aura of peace around her in sleep that he rarely sees on her when awake. He doesn’t want to disturb her, so he heads out quietly for a run. The morning air feels good on his skin, and he stops and picks up coffee and pastries on his way back. Karen hasn’t so much as rolled over, so he leaves hers on the bedside table and gets a quick shower.

She’s sitting up in bed, groggily nibbling on her chocolate croissant and sipping coffee when he comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. She blinks at him, adorably out of it.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at her and leaning in the bathroom doorway.

“Why are we awake?” Her voice is raspy with sleep and she sounds a little grumpy. Not a morning person then.

“I’m an early riser,” he says. “Old habit.”

“It’s not even seven.”

“I’ve been up for over an hour,” he shrugs.

“Did you go for a _run?_ ” Her voice is thick with horror. It just makes him smile more.

“You should come with me sometime.”

“Not if it involves seeing the sunrise with my own eyeballs.” She takes another sip of coffee. “So what’s the plan?”

“Didn’t really have one for what to do after I found you,” he admits. “We can basically do whatever you want. Head back to New York, disappear into the wilderness, tour the country...” he hesitates, but he has to give her the option. “Go our separate ways...”

She goes very still, staring down into her coffee cup. “Is that what you want?”

He has to take a deep breath before he can answer, because he’s honestly terrified of what he wants. He’s terrified of _her_. He can lose her so easily, in so many ways. But he meant what he told her last night in the diner: he’s done running from this. He’s done running from _her_. So he answers truthfully.

“No. I want to stay together.”

She looks up then, a small smile curving her lips. “Good.” The single word does more to lay his fears to rest than anything else could have, and the relief makes him feel almost giddy. He looks away and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“So what was the plan before you found me?”

He straightens up from the doorway and comes to sit on the edge of his bed, facing her. He could give her some bullshit answer, but he figures he’s going to tell her eventually anyway. Might as well start from the beginning.

“Heard about the massacre a few days after it happened,” he says. “Headed straight back to the city, started at your apartment. You weren’t there, but, uh... one of Fisk’s men was.” She’s watching him, blue eyes serious on his. “Because of him, I was able to lure Fisk out into the open so I could kill him. It was a quicker death than he deserved.”

“I read about it, a couple weeks ago,” she murmurs. There’s no condemnation in her eyes for what he did to Fisk.

“His fiancée got in touch and threatened you, and since she didn’t know where you were she was going to start with all your friends,” Frank continues. Karen bites her lip. “I warned Nelson, told him to warn anyone else he could think of.”

“You saw Foggy?” He nods. “Bet he loved that,” she mutters, and Frank snorts.

“Yeah, he was thrilled to find out I’m not rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere.” He snorts again. “He also puts a terrifying amount of cream and sugar in his coffee.” Karen laughs, nodding in agreement.

“Anyway, I spent the next nine days cleaning house.” He shrugs nonchalantly. It’s a blandly sterile explanation for what that actually entailed, but Karen has seen his handiwork before, both firsthand and in crime scene photos, so he doesn’t see any reason to go into detail. “Marianna and Poindexter were the last of it.”

“Poindexter?”

“The fake Daredevil, yeah,” Frank says. “Dirty FBI agent on Fisk’s payroll. Also completely batshit insane.”

“Marianna’s been listed as missing,” Karen offers, revealing how much she’s been paying attention to the situation in New York the last few weeks. Not that he’d expect anything else from her.

“Makes sense,” he shrugs. “They didn’t die in the city, and I wouldn’t be surprised if no one’s even found them yet, let alone identified what was left.” Karen makes a face, but she doesn’t say anything else about his version of solving the problem. “I burned all the evidence, and reconnected with Lieberman. He helped me find you. It was damn hard, if that makes you feel better. Took the better part of two weeks to track you down.”

“I can’t believe you and Micro are friends,” she says, smiling quizzically, and he chuckles.

“He drives me insane but, yeah, he and his wife are good people, and they put up with my asshole self for some reason.”

“Can’t imagine why,” she snarks, and he laughs before growing serious again.

“Your turn,” he says, nodding at her in invitation. “How’d you end up here?”

She shrugs, rolling her eyes. “Nothing very exciting there,” she says, finishing off her coffee. “After my... _visit_ with Fisk, I figured it would be a good idea to disappear.”

“Nelson mentioned what happened with you and Fisk,” Frank says, trying not to make it sound like an accusation. His trigger finger starts to twitch and he wraps his other hand around it to hide his agitation. “He didn’t give me any details, but I got the gist.” Karen sighs and folds her arms around herself.

“I tried to provoke him into attacking me on camera,” she says. “The terms of his house arrest would have been violated and he’d have gone back to prison.”

“And you’d be dead,” Frank growls. She closes her eyes, frowning, but she also nods.

“I had considered that possibility,” she admits.

“God damnit, Karen,” he snaps.

“It was the only thing I could think to do!” She bursts out. “Matt’s an undead lying asshole, and Foggy can only do so much with the law, and Fisk was doing whatever the hell he pleased! So I did what I could to stop him, and it probably would’ve worked if Foggy hadn’t caught on and stopped me.” She sounds genuinely annoyed that her friend ruined her shot at being murdered by Fisk.

“Christ,” Frank snaps. “So what, you die and Fisk goes to prison and the rest of us are supposed to thank you?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d be dead, so I wouldn’t care if you were thankful or not,” she says. “And you were gone, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

Frank growls something unintelligible, because he’s angry and frustrated — but she’s right. He has no claim on her life, certainly not when he was five states away and hadn’t been in contact in months.

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face. “Fuck, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’d’ve probably— well, I wouldn’t have done the same thing, we both know what I would’ve done, but I get it. I just— fuck, Karen, you scared the shit outta me.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, too.”

“It’s just—“ he breaks off for a moment, takes a deep breath. It didn’t use to be this hard to tell Karen the truth. “It’s hard to tell yourself you’re staying away from someone to protect them, only to find out they’re perfectly capable of getting themselves into ten kinds of bullshit without your help.”

She laughs, startled. “Yeah, I’m pretty good at that,” she says, amused. “Foggy claims I’m going to give him a heart attack one of these days.”

“I’ll be right there next to him in the cardiovascular ward,” Frank says, and she laughs again. She starts to say something but stops, biting her lip and looking at him speculatively.

“What?”

“I just... not that I want anything like this thing with Fisk to happen again, but...” she trails off and suddenly becomes very interested in the edge of the blanket. “I would like it, if you were around to have a heart attack on my behalf.”

She finally glances back up and he wonders if she can tell what a wreck he is over her. He nods at her. “I’ll uh—“ he clears his throat. “I’ll do my best on that, ma’am.”

Her cheeks flush prettily, but she smiles. “Good.”

“Think that means you gotta do me a favor and try to rein in the heart-attack-inducing stunts, though,” he says. As long as they’re making oblique promises to each other, he might as well get her to at least _try_ to stay out of trouble.

“I’ll give it a shot,” she says, smiling down at her hands fiddling with the blankets again. The next thing out of her mouth is mundane and he’s grateful. Wonders if she’s just as close to coming out of her skin as he is. “Thanks for breakfast, by the way. Lunch is on me.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but he stops himself. “Okay,” he nods. “So what’s the plan, then?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, clearly considering the question from every angle. It’s no less than he expected. When she answers, it’s with a definitive nod of her head, mind fully made up.

“Back to the city,” she says, voice firm.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.


	8. What started out as friendship

_I lost my job at the Bulletin. Ellison figured out that I know who Daredevil is, right after the massacre, and when I wouldn’t give up Matt’s identity, he fired me. And the worst part is, I can’t really even blame Matt for it. Not entirely. I made my choices. I stuck by him. I didn’t have to do that._

[A sigh, followed by silence.]

_I have no idea what to do with myself, now. I mean, waiting tables isn’t exactly mentally taxing. I’m exhausted enough to pass out after a shift, but I’m also bored out of my mind. Too bad being on the run means the last thing I should do is get another job at a paper. They’ll want to put my picture next to my byline._

[Pause.]

_I was really fucking good at it though. For the first time in my life I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. And the stuff I wrote, Frank— it made a difference. It mattered. And it’s only been a few weeks, but I miss it. I miss it._

It only takes them four days together to make a trip that took Frank weeks on his own. They talk, some, but he can feel Karen carefully steering the conversation away from certain topics. He doesn’t push her — she’ll talk when she’s ready.

When they stop at night, they share motel rooms. They don’t even discuss it, beyond a quirked eyebrow from him to her when the first clerk asks what they need. Karen answers with a small nod for him and turns to the clerk with a request for a double. He’s relieved that she seems just as anxious to stay close as he is.

“Did you see that dive bar we passed on the way through town?” Karen asks, tossing her bag on the bed farthest from the door. They’re halfway back to New York and have just gotten into their room, and Frank blinks at the wall for a moment before answering.

“Uh, Quinn’s? Yeah, I saw it.” He’d noticed it in his usual careful survey of his surroundings, cataloguing it and quickly dismissing it from his mind as unimportant.

“We should go,” she says, and for some reason it sounds like a dare.

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “You want to go drink shitty beer in a dirty bar while the locals give us the stinkeye?”

“That doesn’t sound fun to you?” She’s laughing, and honestly, what the hell else are they gonna do this evening?

“Yeah, alright,” he says, shrugging. “I’m game.”

They walk to the bar, only a few short blocks from the motel. Frank has his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, and his shoulder brushes Karen’s a couple times as they head down the sidewalk before she loops her arm through his and leans into him. He very nearly stumbles in surprise, but after a moment he moves his other hand from his coat pocket to cover hers where it’s wrapped around his arm.

The bar is dimly lit but not nearly as dirty as he expected. There’s a pretty brunette behind the bar, and it’s surprisingly crowded for a weeknight. Probably not much else to do in this small Ohio town. Several people take note of them as they walk in, and Frank instinctively puts his hand on the small of Karen’s back, scowling at anyone who looks to closely.

Karen glances back at him, eyebrows raised, and he bites back a smile, caught. When he lets his hand drop from her waist, though, she grabs it, lacing her fingers through his and tugging him toward the bar with a mischievous grin. She doesn’t let go until they reach the bar. She leans over it to try to get the bartender’s attention, and he props himself up on one elbow beside her, watching the crowd and resisting the urge to put his hands on her again.

“What can I get you two?” The bartender asks when she’s worked her way to them. He asks for a beer.

“Make that two,” Karen says. She grins at him while the woman gets their drinks. He’s never seen her like this, crackling with energy and looking like she’s ready to raise a little hell. He likes the way it looks on her, some of the weight lifting from her shoulders, the gravity falling from her face. It makes her look younger, more carefree.

“What?” She says, and he blinks out of his reverie.

“What?”

“You’re staring,” she says, turning into him. She has an elbow on the counter now, her hand coming up to rest on his arm. He gives in and puts his other hand on her hip, thumb sliding under the hem of her shirt to brush her skin. He doesn’t think he imagines her shiver at the touch.

He shrugs. “Making up for lost time,” he mumbles. She rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide her smile. He’d forgotten he knew how to do this: how to flirt with a pretty girl and make her smile, how to drink shitty beer and laugh and forget his worries for a little while. The bartender returns with their drinks and he drops some cash on the bar with a muttered thanks.

It’s the most fun Frank has had in— well. A while. They hang out at the bar and then snag a pool table when one comes free. Karen kicks his ass, and he grabs another round of drinks before their second game. They banter back and forth and he does a little better, but she still beats him handily, and they move back to the bar.

“My ego can’t take much more,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“I think your ego is just fine,” she laughs. She excuses herself to go to the restroom while he orders their next round.

“You two just passing through?” The bartender asks. Things have wound down slightly, and she has a little more time to talk to people. Her name tag reads _Beth_.

“Yeah,” he says. She considers him for a moment, like she’s weighing something in her mind.

“You should quit holding back,” she finally says.

“Excuse me?”

Beth snorts at him. “You’re nuts about her.” He opens his mouth to deny it out of habit, but she waves him off. “Don’t bother, cowboy. I’ve seen it before. Just don’t wait too long, you’ll miss your chance. I’ve seen that before, too.”

Frank stares at her for a long moment. He nods once. “Thanks,” he says, paying for their latest round. He tips her a little extra. “That’s good advice.”

She shrugs. “You’re one of the good ones,” she says. She notices his frown and gives him a look. “I can always tell. You see a lot, working in a bar. Don’t let this one get away. But if you do... give me a call.” She winks at him and walks away and he’s left there blinking until Karen comes back.

“What’d I miss?” She takes the beer he hands her.

“I’ve been fending off women left and right,” he jokes, hunkering down as if to hide from the other patrons behind her. “It was nearly a stampede after you left, you gotta protect me.” She laughs and wraps an arm around his waist.

“You can’t blame them,” she says, flicking his hair where it curls around his ear and into his beard. “They’ve probably never seen a hipster before.” His affronted look has her in peals of laughter.

She drags him out onto the dance floor a little while later, and he pretends it’s torture even though he actually likes dancing. He used to take Maria out and they’d dance the night away. This is different — Maria liked New York nightclubs, and she was smaller in his arms, and he’ll never get to dance with her again — but maybe this is a good kind of different. Karen is tall enough that he doesn’t have to lean down to whisper in her ear, and she feels strong and responsive in his arms, and his blood sings in his veins whenever their bodies brush. He feels hopeful and alive and maybe a little tipsy.

The song switches over to something slow and languid, and the dance floor opens up as a lot of people use it for a break. Frank uses it as a chance to pull Karen even closer. He wraps his arms around her and presses his temple to hers and they sway together, perfectly in sync.

“Hey, Frank?” Karen’s voice is a quiet murmur in his ear.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for coming to find me.” Her voice is quieter than before, he almost doesn’t hear her. Their arms tighten around each other as he nods against her.

“Always,” he says. “I’ll always come for you, Karen.”


	9. A whirlwind since I saw you

_It’s amazing, how quickly a new life can become normal. I’m working at this diner— I don’t know if I ever told you my mom had a diner? Penny’s Place. So it’s familiar work, waiting tables..._

[A chuckle.]

_Maybe it’s not such a new life, after all._

[Pause.]

_It’s funny that I ended up working in a diner. In the ten years since I left home, I’ve only set foot in a diner one other time. We both know how that turned out._

They make it back to the city late on a Thursday night. It’s been threatening to rain for hours, and it starts to drizzle as Frank is pulling the truck into a parking spot near Karen’s apartment. He wrinkles his nose at the mist hitting his windshield.

“Hey,” Karen says, in the tone of someone who just thought of something important. He shifts into park and looks at her, eyebrows raised in question. “Do you have someplace to stay?”

He blinks. Takes a moment too long to respond. He opens his mouth to say sure, he’ll find somewhere, but Karen is already shaking her head.

“Come on, you can crash with me,” she says. Holds up a hand to stave off his inevitable objection. “At least for a couple days, Frank. Saves me from worrying about you being out on the street again. Especially in this weather.”

He snorts. “I, uh. I wasn’t actually homeless, you know.” She rolls her eyes, but makes no move to get out of the truck, fully ready to sit there all night if she has to. He’s tempted to wait her out, just to see if he can, but another glance at the sky and he decides against it. The sooner they get into her apartment the better — he’d rather not get drenched on their way in.

“Alright, alright, yes ma’am,” he grumbles, opening his door so she’ll actually get out of the truck. He grabs their bags out of the backseat, slinging them over his shoulder and refusing to give Karen hers to carry, herding her gently down the sidewalk with his hands on her waist as she protests.

They hear thunder crack just as they’re entering her apartment, and rain starts pounding against the windows. It’s cold, the air stale, a thin layer of dust covering all the flat surfaces. Nothing seems to have been disturbed since the last time he was here, the night after he visited the Liebermans, and there’s no indication that a man died here. He hasn’t told her that part, and it feels — if not like a lie, then at least a bit dishonest. He really shouldn’t tell her, he’s made up his mind not to. Plausible deniability. He’s just protecting her.

She’d hate if he said that excuse to her face.

“I killed a man here.”

Karen looks at him, startled, one hand still on the thermostat where she’s messing with the heating settings. “What?”

“One of Fisk’s thugs,” he says, meeting her gaze steadily. He’s tired of secrets. “I told you, I used someone to get to Fisk? Yeah... he was waiting here, for you. I got the information I needed out of him and then killed him.”

“Frank,” she says, exasperated.

“He knew where you lived,” he growls. She sighs, shaking her head.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know, it just... felt wrong. To keep it from you.” She frowns at him. “It wasn’t, uh... messy,” he hurries to assure her. “Nothing will lead back here.”

“You think I’m worried about the cops?” She sounds incredulous.

“Aren’t you?”

“No! Jesus, Frank, I’m worried you’ll get yourself killed one of these days and it’ll be my fault!” Her voice cracks like a whip between them.

“How would it be your fault?” He demands, leaning forward to look up into her face.

“How can you ask that?”

“ _No_ , Karen, I’ve made my choices and maybe a lot of them were wrong but protecting you is _always_ going to be right.” He can’t believe they’re having this conversation again.

“Frank—“

“I’ll make that choice every time,” he says, willing her to understand him. “I can’t lose anyone else, Karen, not like— not like _that_.” Not like his family. Not again, not ever. “Listen, I may have a shitty way of showing it but, but you’re important to me, you gotta know that, Karen—“

“Frank,” she says, reaching up to cup his face in both hands. She holds his gaze for a moment, and hers is clear and so, so blue. She nods softly. “I do know.” Her hands are cool and she tugs him closer until his forehead is resting against hers. His eyes drift closed and it’s like in the elevator — only better, because no one is trying to kill them and neither of them are bleeding and she smells like sunshine and rain and _Karen_ instead of like explosives and drywall dust and fear. “Breathe, Frank,” she whispers, and he draws in a long, shuddering breath. He wraps his hands around her slim wrists, anchoring her to him, grounding himself to her.

They stand there like that for a long time. He doesn’t know how to pull away, but eventually he manages to let go and they move quietly around the apartment as they get ready for sleep. Karen finds some extra sheets and blankets in the back of her closet so Frank can make up the couch, grabs a spare pillow from her bed.

“I wish I had a spare bedroom you could stay in,” she says, handing him the pillow. He takes it from her, gives her a smile in return.

“Nah, I don’t mind the couch,” he says.

“It’s not very comfortable...” she makes a face.

“Are you kidding? This is the height of luxury compared to a military issue folding cot.” That surprises a laugh out of her, and he’s glad — Karen Page doesn’t get to laugh enough. If it were up to him, she’d spend the rest of her life laughing.

“They creak and groan when you shift on them,” he explains, not really aware of what he’s saying, too busy enjoying the sound of her laughter and the way her eyes sparkle when she smiles like that. “Kicks up more ruckus than the snores, you get enough guys in a row.” He shrugs. “Still better than the ground, but I’ll take your couch any day.”

“Good,” she says. She moves into the kitchen. “You want anything? We have,” she opens the fridge and makes a face as she surveys the contents — or lack thereof — “beer or... beer.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Hard to decide... what are you having?” She snorts.

“Funny,” she deadpans, and brings him a beer. He taps the bottom of his bottle against hers in thanks and wanders over to browse her bookshelf.

“What do you like to read?” Karen asks, her voice pitched low.

Frank shrugs. “I’m not picky,” he says. “I’ve been reading a lot of classics ‘cause Curt likes them, but I like to throw in something a little less depressing now and then.”

“Good call.” He settles beside her on the couch.

They talk a little longer, but when Karen yawns for a third time he sends her to bed.

“I’ll still be here when you wake up,” he promises. She smiles and drops a kiss on his temple as she gets up and heads for her bedroom.


	10. You’re a candle in the window

_I guess the diner is where it started to go wrong. We kept it, after mom died, but it wasn’t the same. Dad never had a head for business, and I did what I could, but I was just a kid, and he didn’t listen to me._

[Scoff.]

_I was trying so hard to keep the family together, to keep the business afloat. I felt so trapped, all I wanted was to escape, and I knew Todd was bad news but— I just didn’t care._

[Pause.]

_I was high all the time back then. Until the night I shot my boyfriend and killed my brother in a car accident._

[Pause.]

_That was it. My first rodeo. You were right that I’d had one._

[A sniffle.]

_Kevin, he burned Todd’s trailer. He said he was setting me free, he wanted me to get the fuck out of Fagan Corners, go to college. Todd started— started beating him with a tire iron, so I shot him with his own gun, I shot him but just in the arm, and— and I took Kevin, and we got the fuck out of there._

[A sob.]

_I was high, I shouldn’t have been driving, but I just, I had to get him away, and—_

[The recording cuts off.]

He wakes in pitch darkness, disoriented and groggy. Lies still for a moment, trying to figure out where he is and what woke him.

The dimly lit shapes around him slowly resolve into living room furniture. That’s right — he’s on Karen’s couch, and what woke him up was a sound coming out of Karen’s bedroom. He listens, and the sound comes again.

She’s crying.

His heart crashes to a halt in his chest and he struggles out of his tangle of blankets. It doesn’t even occur to him to leave her alone, to let her cry in private. He thinks it’s about damn time Karen Page has someone to hold her while she cries.

Her bedroom door is open, but he knocks gently on it anyway, not wanting to barge in or startle her.

“Hey,” she says, trying valiantly to hide the tremor in her voice. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be,” he says, still standing in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

“Um,” she sniffles. “Sure.”

He pads quietly across the room to her and pauses at the edge of her bed. She seems to know what he wants and moves over to make room, patting the space beside her in invitation. He settles next to her and opens his arms.

“C’mere,” he says, and she does without hesitation. “Nightmare?”

“Yeah,” she whispers after a moment. She’s still crying — he can feel a small pool of damp spreading across his bare chest and hopes, rather incongruously, that his chest hair isn’t tickling her nose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He keeps his voice low, matching her tone. There’s something about the moment that begs the intimacy of whispers and murmurs.

It takes Karen a long moment to respond. He lets her take the time, he’s not going to force her to talk about it if she doesn’t want to. He just wants her to know she can, with him. If she wants to.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she whispers. “I’ve kept so many secrets from you.”

He sighs. “Haven’t had much opportunity to share them with me,” he says. “My fault. I should’ve been around more.”

“You’re here now.” She’s quiet again. “While I was on the run,” she says after a while. “I— well, it was silly. But I talked to you.”

“You did? How?”

“Left voice memos on my phone. I probably shouldn’t even have kept it but I’d taken out the SIM card, so it was safe enough.” She shifts against him, getting more comfortable. “When I was alone at night, I was going stir crazy from boredom. So I talked to you.”

Frank’s chest feels tight. He doesn’t know what to say, so he presses a kiss into her hair.

“You can listen to them,” she says carefully. “If you want.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She leans over him to grab her phone from the bedside table, and pretty soon her voice is filtering over him, rendered slightly tinny by the speakers. She turns the volume down a few notches and settles back against him, and he listens.

At some point, Karen falls asleep in his arms, lulled by the sounds of her voice and the steadiness of his heartbeat under her ear. He listens all the way through the recordings, twice, his heart breaking every time her voice does.

He stares up at the ceiling for a long time when the recordings have ended. Eventually he shifts, starting to pull away. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous. Just because she wanted the comfort he offered doesn’t mean he can just stay the whole night.

Karen grumbles sleepily, her arms tightening around him.

“Frank?”

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Instead, she shakes herself more awake, blinking up at him and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Where are you going?”

“Figured I should go back to the couch,” he mutters.

Karen sighs. “You don’t have to. I mean, you can if you’d rather, but...” she bites her lip. “You can stay.”

“Okay,” he nods, quietly pleased, and lays back down, pulling her into his arms again. “I listened to the tapes.”

She snorts. “Tapes,” she mutters, amused. He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a relic. Very funny.” He grows serious again. “Thank you, for trusting me with— with all of it. You know pretty much everything about me, all of my secrets. Thank you for letting me have some of yours.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods against him. He feels something wet touch his skin and—

“Fuck, I wasn’t trying to make you cry,” he says. He shifts so they’re lying face to face, gently brushes tears from her cheeks.

“I know,” she says. “But I’m a crier. You should know that by now.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You asked about my nightmare, earlier,” she says. “It was the car crash.”

He stills. She said _the_ car crash, so he knows she must mean her brother’s, not the one Frank caused, but he still feels the weight of it, the guilt of adding to her trauma. He regrets a lot of things about that night — not killing Schoonover, he’ll never regret that — but he thinks that wrecking her car is the worst of it. If he’d known...

“You didn’t know,” she whispers now, reading his mind, and he sighs. Doesn’t say anything, because he can’t undo any of his mistakes. His life would be very different if he could.

“That night, it didn’t feel real,” she continues. “It was different than... I’d dreamed of car crashes for so long that being in one again... it felt surreal. Like it wasn’t really happening to me.”

“I wish it hadn’t,” he says finally. “I wish I could take it back, find another way—“

“You saved me,” Karen says. “Over and over again, you saved me. I’m not going to hold your methods against you.”

He sighs again, tightens his arms around her. Presses a kiss to her forehead. He tells himself he shouldn’t, but it feels like an empty platitude.

“You saved me, too,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. “You shouldn’t have, I didn’t deserve it... but I’m glad you did.”

She smiles, lips curving gently in the dark. She’s not crying anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

He actually sleeps late the next morning — not that Karen would believe him, since he’s still up at what she calls “the asscrack of dawn.” He lies still in her arms for a few minutes, listening to the sound of her breathing, feeling her chest rise and fall steadily against him, and feeling incredibly lucky and completely terrified at the same time. Wanting more, wanting it so badly that it feels like a physical ache — and at the same time, afraid to ask for it, because he might actually get it.

He’s not sure he should get what he wants. After everything he’s done the last few years, he’s not sure he deserves it.

He slips carefully out of Karen’s arms. She grumbles a little, but doesn’t wake, and it makes him smile.

He goes out for a run, hoping to clear his head. The days are getting warmer, but the early mornings are still chilly, and the crisp air is the slap in the face he needs. Curt’s been on him to stop being a wallowing asshole for years now, and the reunion with David and Sarah, however brief, felt good, and now that he’s held Karen in his arms and woken up with her breath in his lungs he doesn’t think he could let her go even if he wanted to. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He wants to follow that bullshit advice he gave her in the diner two years ago and hold on with both hands. He wants to stop pushing away the people he loves.

He thinks about Maria and Lisa and Frankie. How it hurts to remember them, but he does it anyway, because forgetting them would hurt more. How even after all the pain and sadness he’s felt since they died, he wouldn’t go back and change anything about their lives together. He’d still fall in love with Maria, he’d still let Lisa change his whole world, he’d still clean up those cookie crumbs Frankie was always leaving under the piano bench. All the mess and the stupid arguments and the pain of their absence — he’d keep it all, because the rest of it was worth it.

He runs for a long time — until he can’t tell his sweat from his tears, until he can’t remember why he’s running, until he finds himself back at Karen’s door, windblown and out of breath and feeling like maybe this is the one door he’s always been meant to open.

“I’m— I’m back,” he calls as he walks in. He almost said _home_ , because that’s what Karen is to him, but it felt too presumptuous, too new. He rounds the corner into the living room and is nearly bowled over by Karen. She practically tackles him, her arms coming around his shoulders as she pulls herself flush against him. She’s shaking, and he steadies her, one arm wrapping around her waist as he buries his other hand in the soft tangle of her hair.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” She shakes her head and doesn’t answer for a moment. Her arms are tight around him and he noses into her hair, presses a kiss into the soft skin behind her ear. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

“I woke up, and you were gone, and I thought—” She breaks off, shaking her head again.

His heart _aches_. “You thought I left.”

She lets out the breath she was holding, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost. “Yeah. I guess, after last night, I thought...”

Frank pulls away so he can look her in the eye. “Nothing you tell me could ever make me want to leave.”

A tremulous smile spreads across her face. “I’m stuck with you, huh?”

He half smiles, glancing away. “I mean... only if you want to be.” When he looks back at her, she’s staring at him, eyes serious.

“I want to be,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods. She seems to notice his disheveled state for the first time. “Why are you all sweaty?”

“I went for a run,” he says. They let each other go, slowly, reluctantly, and they don’t go far. He feels like a magnet trying to pull away from a lodestone. “Gonna start going out more often if you’re gonna jump me every time I return.” He’s joking, trying to lighten the mood, but her eyes go dark and he realizes how it sounds. “Uh. I mean—”

She kisses him.

He sucks in a breath, surprise whiting out his mind for half a second, but his body is ready for this. He makes a needy sound in the back of his throat and kisses her back. He pulls on her, his hand on her hip urging her to step into him, to close the space between them, what little is left. She steps forward eagerly, and he meets her halfway, hips swaying into each other. She’s warm and right and everything he hasn’t let himself want for years now.

“Been wanting this,” he mumbles between kisses. “Been wanting _you_.”

“Yes,” she breathes into his mouth. “You have me.”

“Missed you,” he growls, kissing across her jaw.

“You weren’t gone that long,” she sighs, but he can hear the smile in her voice. Her hand comes up, fingers carding through his hair, and he chuckles against the soft skin of her throat, presses his lips to the shiver under her skin.

“Not just this morning,” he explains, moving back to press a heated kiss to her mouth. “Missed you the whole time I was gone. Longer. Years, feels like.”

She nods against him. “Same,” she says, her lips soft against his. “Since the woods.” He stills.

“Even then?” He pulls back to search her expression, and she smiles, a little rueful but unreserved in the admission.

“Even then,” she whispers. He falls back into her with a groan, kissing her with all the pent up emotions of the past weeks and months and years. The strength of her response takes his breath away.

“Frank.” Her voice is soft, but there’s an urgency there that makes him listen. He opens his eyes to find her looking at him, eyes aflame and lips slightly parted, a flush turning her skin pink. “Take me to bed,” she says, and he stops breathing. He makes a strangled noise and then he’s scooping her up in his arms.

“Frank!” She protests. “You big dope, I can walk.”

He smiles, already at the door to her bedroom, moving carefully so as not to hit her head on the frame. “I know,” is all he says. He tries to lay her gently on the bed but the moment her back touches the mattress she hooks a leg behind his back and topples him over on top of her.

She lets out a muffled _oof_ as he lands.

“You did that to yourself,” he laughs breathlessly, rolling over so she’s sprawled on top of him.

“Worth it,” she grins, and she’s right. 

It’s all worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well friends, here we are! Thank you all for reading and for all your lovely comments, they are so appreciated.
> 
> I hope you’re all safe and healthy, sending hugs <3


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